


The Obvious Child

by littledaybreaker



Category: Bandom, Empires
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-27
Updated: 2012-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-06 02:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledaybreaker/pseuds/littledaybreaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They tell everyone and everyone is appropriately happy for them (even William sends a congratulations text although Tom isn't convinced it's not a passive-aggressive “congratulations on ruining your life asshole”), and Danielle tries to figure out where the fuck they're supposed to put the ever-growing passel of baby shit, and Tom looks at tiny guitars and even tinier plaid shirts and thinks again that this was the best decision they never meant to make.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Obvious Child

**Author's Note:**

> ...I wish I knew what provoked me to write this, but I really have no idea. I was trying to sleep last night and I wrote this instead. Title is from Paul Simon's song of the same name.

They find out in September, but Danielle makes him wait almost ten weeks after that before they tell anyone.  
“To be sure,” she explains, and he doesn't have to ask what that means, just waits quietly, patiently, for her to make up her mind.

In November, just after Max's birthday, she says to him as they're laying in bed listening to one another breathe, “I guess it wouldn't be so bad.”  
“I think we could do it,” Tom agrees and although his tone is calm, his heart is singing. He wouldn't dare say it aloud, but he'd wanted it all along. 

After that, everything goes okay for a little while. They tell everyone and everyone is appropriately happy for them (even William sends a congratulations text although Tom isn't convinced it's not a passive-aggressive “ _congratulations on ruining your life asshole_ ”), and Danielle tries to figure out where the fuck they're supposed to put the ever-growing passel of baby shit, and Tom looks at tiny guitars and even tinier plaid shirts and thinks again that this was the best decision they never meant to make.

December. That's when it stops going right and starts going horribly, horribly wrong.

They find out she's a girl, and Tom contemplates learning how to shoot and Danielle contemplates all of the tiny dresses and skinny jeans she can now buy, and the ultrasound technician contemplates their baby daughter in a way that makes Tom's stomach turn—lingering too long in certain places and not smiling anymore, and finally Tom breaks the silence. “What's the matter with her,” he asks, giving Danielle's hand a squeeze and hoping she won't go into panic mode, even though he can feel her hands shaking under his and he knows she's most of the way there.  
The technician smiles nervously. “Oh, I just wanted to get a better shot of her heart,” she explains, and then says, “Excuse me,” and disappears.

It's an agonizing ten minutes before she returns with their doctor in tow, and even Tom singing quietly does nothing to stop Danielle from shaking and saying _shitshitshitfuckfuckshitfuck_ under her breath. The doctor flicks the machine back on, studies the images, and regards them with a grave look on her face.  
“Your baby has some features that are consistent with Down Syndrome,” she tells them seriously, calmly, and this time it's Tom's turn to swear.  
Danielle sits straight up, sending the ultrasound wand clanging against the metal of the gurney. “What does that mean? What does that mean?”  
The doctor gives her a look of pity that makes Tom want to punch her in the face and turns the screen to face them, pointing out all of the little things that make up one _big_ thing. One huge thing. One _life-changing_ thing.  
They sit there in silence for a long, long time, until Tom finally says “What now?”

They book an appointment, and four days later they go back and the doctor uses a giant needle to take some fluid. She says they'll have the results back in 48 hours. For 48 hours, Tom doesn't ask Danielle what she thinks they're going to do. He isn't sure if he wants to hear the answer, so instead he folds tiny baby shirts and plays his guitar and moves forward through time as if nothing happened.

When the doctor phones, Tom already knows what she's going to say before she says it. She tells them their options, as if they don't already know. And she tells them that she's sorry. Danielle thanks her and hangs up the phone, and Tom finally asks her the question that's been on his mind for the past 48 hours.  
“What are we going to do?”  
What Danielle would really like to do is drink heavily, but instead she rests a hand on her stomach and says softly, “I don't know.”  
Tom hugs her tight. “No matter what,” he says, “I'm going to love you forever.” But just like always, his mind is already made up.

Empires go on tour a week and a half after they find out, and Tom doesn't say a word about it, even though he cringes every time Sean yells at someone for being a “retard”. He plays the songs and drinks and parties and smiles through the jokes about this being his last tour as a free man and tries to cry as quietly as he can when it finally starts to get to him, until one day just before they're supposed to go home, two days before Christmas, he gets a text from Danielle. “ive been reading,” it says. “this isnt going to be so bad.”  
“I don't think so either,” Tom texts back, and for the first time in two weeks, he feels like he can breathe again.

Things go back to normal, then, for awhile. It's a different kind of normal, a sadder one, but at least Tom isn't drinking every night and then crashing on Sean's couch because he knows that's all Danielle wants to do, too, and at least Danielle isn't hiding in the bathroom so that he doesn't have to hear her cry. Danielle finds a place for the now army-sized passel of baby shit and Tom buys a tiny pink guitar and an even tinier pink camera, and they paint the minute half-bedroom pink and brown and green and Tom builds the crib without landing himself in the emergency room and Danielle puts sheets in the crib and hangs wooden letters, A-U-D-R-E-Y, above it. Their mothers send them books and love and anecdotes about all the people with “downs” they've met. Danielle finds a documentary on HBO about two people with Down Syndrome who got married, and they watch it with a surreal sort of bittersweet joy. It should make them feel like shit, Tom thinks, that they're rejoicing over the fact that their daughter might someday get married, but instead, it just fills them with hope. Maybe their world won't be so bleak and awful after all.

Two weeks before Tom's birthday, they go out for brunch and walk around in Williamsburg for awhile like the glowing new hipster parents they're about to be. They go to the farmer's market and buy fresh vegetables and pasta and an impossibly tiny sweater, hat and booties for Audrey, and then they fall asleep in a heap on the bed without even bothering to take their shoes off.

Tom is in the middle of the craziest fucking dream, starring Sean as a giant anthropomorphic rabbit who keeps stealing Audrey in his inexplicable stomach pouch when Danielle nudges him awake. “Hey,” she says. “We need to go have this baby.”

They call for a car and while they're waiting for it, Tom frantically runs around the apartment, grabbing things willy-nilly and shoving them into one of his grimy tour backpacks. In Audrey's room, throwing diapers and tiny shoes and a few random stuffed animals in, he stops and looks around, realizing for the first time how woefully unprepared they really are for all of the ways their life is about to change.

She comes out screaming and bewildered with a shock of bright orange hair that makes everyone in the room laugh, but once her whole body is out, she stops and looks around, totally calm, and then promptly closes her eyes and falls asleep.

Tom has never held a newborn baby before. He cradles Audrey stiffly, his arms rigid, balancing the burrito-wrapped bundle that is his newborn daughter, and studies her face. After spending so much time before she was born imagining that when he saw her, he would only see a diagnosis, a label, he's pleasantly surprised to see that she looks like...a baby. Sure, her eyes are upturned and a little crinkly in the corners, and sure, her nose is little, and sure, she looks like she has Down Syndrome, but she also has his chin and Danielle's funny little ears and of course, that crazy red hair that _has_ to be a Steger thing. She looks like she has Down Syndrome, but she also looks like she's _theirs_ , and right then, that's the only thing that matters.

In the bed, Danielle stirs awake. “Hey. That looks good on you,” she says sleepily, and Tom carefully, awkwardly maneuvers into the bed with her, nestling Audrey between them. She stirs momentarily, her little lips making sucking motions like she's about to wake up, and then settles. Tom leans over and kisses the side of Danielle's head, watches Audrey sleep. “What do you think?” he asks. “Was she the right choice?”  
Danielle strokes Audrey's soft, baby-sweet cheek. “I think she was the only choice.”

It's not always easy, but Tom is pretty sure parenting never is. Sometimes it feels fucking impossible that they'll ever find a place for Audrey in their lives, but somehow—because, Tom is sure, she was _supposed_ to be there with them all along—they do. Of course, they can't go out and stay out until all hours, can't drink til they're sick and pass out on the living room floor, but they find time for brunch and shows and occasional nights with their friends, and sometimes, on Sunday mornings, they bring Audrey along for brunch and the farmer's market and naps in their bed, spread-eagled like a tiny, red-headed starfish. Tom carries Audrey in a sling on his front and Danielle carries her giant diaper bag and they walk holding hands like the glowing hipster parents they are, and it feels so _normal_ , so much less life-changing and devastating than the doctor and her pamphlets made it out to be. There's therapy, of course, and there's the awkward glances from strangers, the pitying looks of “ _I'm sorry your baby has Down Syndrome and that your life is over_ ”, but none of it feels very big to either of them. It's just a part of their lives, a part of having a baby. Maybe, Tom thinks, they're lucky that Audrey is their only baby, because they never had a chance to have a “normal” baby first. This is their normal, and so it's not as hard as it could be.

The band loves her. Max, of course, is a proud and fiercely protective uncle, but she's worked her way into the hearts of all of the guys, and they beg Danielle to bring her to practice and to every show, who usually obliges, if only because she thinks it's hilarious to watch a bunch of grown men go gooey over a tiny baby.  
Sean hasn't yelled at anyone for being a “retard” since Audrey was born.

At night, Tom likes to sneak in to Audrey's room when she's asleep and scoop her up, hold her against his chest and listen to her breathe, in and out, slow and peaceful, watch her chest rise and fall and her eyes flutter with a dream. It's funny, he thinks, how the one thing that he never planned for, never wanted, never even thought about, is the one thing that makes him feel most complete of all. And somehow he knows, Down Syndrome or no Down Syndrome, that this tiny little girl with a mess of red hair is going to do things _so_ much bigger than getting married. If Tom Conrad has anything to do with it, this tiny little girl is going to conquer the world.


End file.
